


Nine of Swords, Two of Pentacles

by solona



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caring, Drinking, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kind Of Graphic, Pain, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Worry, Wound Tending, probably don't read if you find anything triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solona/pseuds/solona
Summary: He felt the curse humming at his throat, it would heal. He always healed.





	Nine of Swords, Two of Pentacles

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: self-harm, please do not read if you might find this upsetting.  
> Features my apprentice, Ahnet.

With gloved and steely hands-- doctor’s hands, once-- Julian gripped the neck of a strong-smelling drink. It burned on its way down, before settling, smoldering, against the anxiety in his gut. He disrobed and gave the bottle a last drink, long and deep, that reminded him of so many goodbye kisses before. His skin burned and reddened as he sunk into the metal tub.

It was quiet-- well, as quiet as the tenement ever was. He could hear some muffled conversation, a spare and distant argument a few floors above or below him. But that was of no matter.

He paused for a breath-- _What would they think of me?--_ another breath, this one perhaps tighter than the last-- _W_ _hat would_ she _think?_  Spineless no doubt-- some disgusting and pitiful revulsion of a man. But this was… to be the last time. He wasn’t so sure he believed himself yet, but he needed it to be. He had people who needed him. He couldn’t be allowed to keep failing them like this, like he did so often.

He retrieved the scalpel. It was an old thing, but well cared for and keen-- a relic of his not so distant past. He ran the blade against his fingertip, skin prickling at the sensation. Satisfied yet fueled by the anticipation it sparked-- at that thin red line that welled up in his wake. He felt the curse humming at his throat, it would heal. He always healed. Steam clung to his lashes, and he blinked the irritation from his eye. Julian pressed two fingers to the inner wrist. The skin pushed back against his touch, all those tendons and blood and veins that held him together. With a shuddering sigh and an absence of hesitation that might have terrified him had it not become such a necessity to him, Julian dragged the scalpel along the flesh there, breath shuddering, jaw tight to keep the upwelling of pain from busting out. It burned. It always burned. The pain washed over him in waves, driving his heartbeat and taking those thoughts far from his mind. There was a whimper with the next, and tears that pricked at his eyes.

He wanted more.

Again, he sliced through the flesh of his wrist. Agonizing pain shot through him, up his arm. He curled in on himself, dropping the blade. He’d hit something important. He knew that all too well. It pulsed up his arm, the pain of it near nauseating. A sob racked his chest. The pain faded barely enough for him to register the rush of blood there. Through a slitted eye, he could see the pink of the water blushing a darker, more nefarious red.

A groan escaped him, something low and inhuman. Pain and terror and surrender. It was the sound of a dying animal-- of an animal that should die, that failed death again and again. _What have you done?_ Julian's mind disconnected. _What have you DONE?!_

Nothing. He knew that only mutely. That knowledge was suppressed by the flitting of his heart, the tightness of his throat. The water burned. His wrist burned. His lungs burned, aching with effort and lack of air. It was guilt. It was shame. It was oblivion. Something in his chest unlocked. Julian laughed bitterly. There was never a drier, more brittle sound. He pulled his hands limply from the vortex of red and water and sobbed into them. _I’m sorry,_ he wanted to tell them-- tell her, _I’m so sorry._ Pasha... Ahnet... it broke his heart to think on it. They deserved a better, stronger man than he.

And then his eyes were dry, almost instantly after he’d started. With a shudder, he leaned back against the tub once more, numb to the burn of its metal back. He felt lighter somehow, softer, floating-- like he leaned not into the hard and searing plane of metal, but a plush hillside or the arms of a lover. He tipped his head back, eye tracing the cracks and grains of the wood.

* * *

 

She came in through the back window, he’d find out in the morning-- something so small he’d never thought to lock. But that was Ahnet for him, the crafty little bird she was. His head was tipped up, hanging back from the rim of the tub. Steam rose softly. It might have been a beautiful scene-- or at least a pleasant surprise to walk in on, were it not for the blood that stained the water there. And he might have looked beautiful, relaxed and serene, with his long legs breaching the water’s surface and his hair dark and wet, if it weren't for the shock of bloodless lips and marble-esq skin. “Julian?” Why was she whispering? “Are you alright?” It seemed a remarkably dumb question, but she found herself straining past the blood rushing in her ears for his answer.

There was noise-- muffled yet magnified, distorted like echoes in a cavern and Julian blinked a half-lidded eye but made no attempt to move. 

Ahnet swallowed past the sharpness of her breath and approached. It was as though he wasn’t sure where the sound of her voice was coming from. She knelt beside the tub. “Julian,” she touched his face. He jerked up at the touch, water sloshing onto the floor. “Ahnet!” he looked at her, “No. No, you’re not supposed to be here. You can’t be here.” He leaned back weakly against the tub, breathing uneven. He gripped her hand and pulled it to his chest. “You have to go,” he blinked, eyes unfocused, hand still gripping her’s.

 _His wrist…_ her head felt nine miles from her body, floating through time and space. Ahnet found herself unable to breathe for a moment, so she swallowed, hard as she could. “Did--” she could hear her own voice, small and tin. “Did you do that?”

He pressed her hand flat against his chest before pulling his arm back under the cover of the darkened water, hiding them there, and tipping his chin down against his chest, staring blearily into the water. “Please I--” his voice caught with a chest-rattling sob. “--I don’t want you to see--”

“It's alright.” Her throat was tight, her words almost choked off. “It's ok, Julian.” She ran her hand up and down his chest in smooth circles, her other fingers working into his shoulder. “It's alright.” His heart raced under her palm like a newborn fowl-- sporadic and uneven. She gave his arm a squeeze, “I’ll be right back-- will you be ok?” He nodded mutely, head down from her sight.

Ahnet stood, lightheaded suddenly, and gripped the tub’s rim for a moment of support. She had no healing magic-- no curse like him. But _bandages--_ she ordered herself. _He’s a doctor. He’ll have to have bandages somewhere._ She rummaged through the apartment, hands trembling. She half-ran half-walked back to him, supplies clutched to her chest.

When she returned he was no longer hiding his face from her. His gaze, heavy-lidded and ashen, held no trace of emotion. It was blank and unfocused. Somehow, she worried more for him in this state. The silence was punishingly loud as she fished her own hand into the bath water, and retrieved his hand. It was limp and heavy in hers. The cuts were closing-- yes, thank the gods, but the larger ones still drooled lazy mouthfuls of blood. “This will hurt,” Ahnet warned him in a quiet voice. He did not respond, his gaze fixed eerily beyond her. Ahnet poured antiseptic over the wounds clumsily. Julian sucked in a breath and closed his eye, fingers twitching but otherwise remained statue-esq. She eyed the soft glow of the sigil at his throat for a moment, warry and untrusting. Forcing her hands to obey, Ahnet went to work, wrapping the bandage as well as she knew how before repeating the process on the other, less abused arm.

“Let’s get you out of this bath,” Ahnet urged. He shook his head against the tub wall, ashen. His chin dipped against the water. “Tired,” he rasped, voice low and breathy. Weak, waning. “I’ll just… be a minute.”

“Let me help you.” Her eyes burned. Ahnet stood behind him, arms under his and pulled. Julian was limp beneath her grasp, and heavy-- as if waterlogged-- she tried not to think of him as a waterlogged corpse-- “Fortuna, you’re heavy,” she groaned. She tried again, cursing under her breath, with all her strength, but abandoned the venture at the small hitch in his breath, the soft groan. Was he in pain? She knelt back beside him, ran her fingers gently through his hair, carefully working around the tangles.

“You’ll-- you’ll heal. Won’t you?”

A nod, small and lethargic. “I’m fine,” he barely whispered, voice calm and tempered-- naked in its contrast to the raw emotion it had help just moments ago. He shivered, despite the steam coming off his skin. His breathing had slowed that was… well that was good, wasn’t it? Better than the panicked and uneven gasps of air he’d been gulping down a few minutes ago. She pressed her palm into his chest, feeling the thready pulsing of his heart. He slid a bit further down the tub, mouth submerged in the water. He’d never said anything about how the curse dealt with drowning-- Ahnet felt a stab of panic-- and she took his head in hand, cradling it above the water. He was unconscious, eye closed and mouth agape. And Ahnet felt her chest tighten in raw terror. He would live-- she told herself. The curse would not let go of him so easily. He would heal-- she just had to wait this out with him. She was _not_ watching him die. He would be fine-- but he so clearly wasn’t.

With a shuddering sigh, Ahnet wrapped her arms more comfortably across his chest from her position behind the head of the tub, careful to keep his head resting against her. He needed sleep, she told herself. Remembering with some twisted mirth his crackling laugh when he’d explained it to her; _But healing? Healing takes as much out of me as it will take._ She rested her forehead against his shoulder. Ignoring the over-wash of metallic tang to his scent, Ahnet felt the pang of the pulse in his neck against her cheek. Her eyes prickled, first, then wept.

When the water had cooled and her eyes dried, a hand, clammy with cold and limp, fell against her arm. “Ahnet.” It was the whisper of a ghost, barely audible and airy, cutting through the soundlessness of night. His other hand found the top of her head, clumsy fingers twining weakly in her hair. “I’m sorry,” he slurred in his stupor.

She blinked, removing her face from his neck and took the hand that had caressed her hair. His eye was hardly cracked open, barely visible in the candlelight. His lips were bloodless and chapped. Ahnet ran her hand through his hair soothingly and pressed a kiss to his temple. But she could not speak.

He shivered against her, struggling to keep that heavy eye open even a fraction of the way. She swallowed, throat dry, and took a breath. “Can you stand?” Her voice sounded rough and small, even to her own ears. She felt out of her head and unfamiliar even to herself-- and Ahnet suspected Julian felt the same beyond his exhaustion. Julian gave what might have been a nod, and she took his arm to guide him up right, her other hand on his back. He was heavy, and much bigger than her, but together they balanced themselves and Julian clambered out of the tub. He stood finally, extending to his full height, swaying. Julian sagged against her, righted himself for a moment, and then his body split across the floor like so much water. “Julian!” Ahnet followed him down, powerless to lessen the impact. Julian groaned and pulled himself up to his knees, an arm braced on the support beams that held up his ceiling. “Are you alright, Ahnet? Are you hurt?” He helped her to standing, and then himself. His studied but clumsy and uncoordinated hands searched her for any sign of injury.

“I think that’s my question, don’t you?” She took his jaw in hand, brushing her thumb across the bruise already blushing across the skin there. “Nasty fall. Here--” she took his arm, draping it across her shoulders, and wrapped her other arm as much around him as she could. “I’ve got you,” her voice was strained under his weight. She squinted into the darkness, muttering a small spell under her breath and the hearth flared to life with a rush. “Much better.”

The room now warm and better lit, the pair stumbled to the cot kept tucked away in the corner behind a small screen. Julian collapsed into it, springs creaking in protest. He leaned against the wall, shivering and naked, still damp. It frightened her, how unaware he seemed to be of what was going on, of her presence even, when just moments ago he’d seemed to possess more lucidity than she’d seen him have all night. He simply sat there, slumped against the wall, curled in on himself, limp and half-conscious. Wordlessly, Ahnet retrieved a cloth, and toweled off his hair, drying him as well as she could, before finishing off the job with a small, weak spell. It was… not her best work. She was tired and heartsick, and it was terribly difficult to muster the energy and concentration even for something so mundane as the fire-starter spell.

Both groaning, Ahnet worked Julian under the blankets one long leg at a time, guiding his head to the thin pillow. There. She smoothed back his hair, fingers lingering on that usually warm face. His breath was soft and slow against the skin of her wrist. She took a moment to rest her head against his chest, to listen and feel that heartbeat thrumming against her through the quilts piled high on him. She reached out, and wove her fingers in with his.

How would it have gone had she not found him lying there in that tub? Would he have woken, cold and weak come morning, alone, too weak to stand on his own? Would he have drowned? Could he have drowned? Her breath hitched sharply, and she unwound herself from a sleeping Julian. No time for that, now. She had work to do.

Hair tied up, Ahnet went to work silently, mopping up the blood-tinged water from the floorboards and rugs, dumping and cleaning the tub. Her nails were pink and her hands were raw by the end of it, and the smallest gasps of a weak dawn were breaking out across the streets of Vesuvia. Her work done, Ahnet sat curled beside the hearth with one of Julian’s coats over her shoulders as a blanket, and the bottle he’d clutched earlier that night found a new home in her hands. She wanted to fold herself into that cot against him. She craved his warmth, the shape of him, the smell of his skin so close to her’s. He needed his privacy, she imagined. But Ahnet… she needed comfort. And she searched for it in that bottle. She drunk until she cried, his coat around her shoulders in pale imitation of his arms; and then she drunk until she slept, straining, in those last few moments of awareness, for the sound of his slow and steady breath.  

* * *

 

Julian woke slowly, body heavy. Light filtered through the gaps in the sheets he called curtains, and for that moment, he felt warmth from the tips of his fingers down to his toes. His body was relaxed, unburdened by the nakedness of full consciousness. He rolled onto his side, his eye bleary and sleep-heavy.

Ahnet was asleep, curled up in his coat on the floor beside the hearth, a bottle discarded by her feet. Her hair was a tangle, and even as she slept he could see the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor of her usually warm brown skin. He spent a moment in foolish, idealistic confusion. _Ah…_ he remembered. _Poor girl._ His heart was sore, and it spread from his core, chasing out the warmth of sedation from his limbs. With a grunt and more effort than he’d ever admit, Julian sat up. He was naked, but the room was still warm from Ahnet’s dying fire. (How recently had she been awake, he wondered, that glowing embers still remained?)  Still, he felt a chill in his bones he suspected no fire could drive out. Lightheaded, Julian leaned against the wall. His chest ached, his head ached. It seemed all he brought was pain to himself and those he loved.

It was midday, if he was going to give it a more generous estimate. He could hear vendors well into their sales. Had she slept there all night? No-- she’d done so much more than that. Ahnet had been busy, if the lack of evidence of last night’s affair was anything to judge by. Last night… the guilt that crashed into him was near debilitating-- and for a moment he thought he might certainly be sick. Julian’s head found his hands, which twisted in his hair, pulling.

 _What have you done…_ he asked himself again.

It seemed he would never be free of that particular question.

Julian contemplated bringing her into his bed, or perhaps slipping the pillow beside him beneath her head, maybe a quilt … but in truth the terror of waking her was overpowering. What would he say? What would she say? This would be the last he’d see of her, no doubt. She’d done him the good yet cruel courtesy of waiting for him to wake to tell him as much. He glanced down at her handiwork, at his bandaged wrists. She need not have bothered, but he felt his chest tighten at the sentiment-- that she would take the time to care for him, even after he’d hurt her so egregiously. Methodically, he unwound them-- better to erase all trace of that night. He felt the texture of the ruined fabric between his fingers. Good god, did he love her. His chest seized. It just might devour him.

Julian dressed on unsteady feet, body strained to preserve the silence. If she stayed there, sleeping, perhaps he could get some measure of the life-time’s fill of her, of loving her, that he needed. If he couldn't go back… then he wanted desperately to preserve this moment of suspension for as long as he could manage.

The bottle lying at her feel was one he recognized-- though he wasn’t quite sure how much he’d drunk of it, nor how much she’d partaken-- or how much had ended up on that moth-eaten rug for the matter. _My dear girl, did I drive you to drink?_ He might have joked on some other, earlier day. The floor creaked under his weight, and he wished for Anhet’s cat-like, soundless gait. Folding long legs beneath him, Julian sat. He was still so weak, so exhausted. He felt whittled to the bone and wholly mournful of all that had come to pass that last night. That wasn’t what he wanted his last night with her to be-- not the kind of sour taste he wanted to leave her with. He rubbed his eyes ruefully, whole body sore with tensions old and new. You’d think the curse would do something for the knots in his back or the pit in his stomach.

He watched her, sleeping there. The softness of her. The sadness of her. The _love_ of her. He wanted terribly to lay himself alongside her, to feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek, to feel once more the way her hands wove themselves against him without intent, how her body molded to his own, the warmth of her-- even when she complained of the cold. But no, he’d forfeited those privileges. He deserved no sweetness, none of the tenderness she’d shown him the last night. She should have left him in her disdain to bleed and wallow so decrepit as he had desired.

She looked… dangerously fragile. Small and vulnerable, shielded only by the coat engulfing her form. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, counting her breaths, matching his own to her slow and deep cadence. He pulled his knees to his chest, resting his head there, gaze heavy and lingering. His head felt heavy, but heavier still was his heart. Sleep would scoff at a wretch like him.

The selfishness of what he was doing hit him.

Who was he? To steal these moments? These longing looks? He was a coward and a thief, and he deserved the full brunt of her wrath. Waiting in silence was no protection, no solution. “Ahnet,” he took her hand-- then quickly released, instead opting for a soft pat on the shoulder to rouse her. “Ahnet.”

She blinked awake, disoriented as she sat up, his coat slipping from her bare shoulders before she pulled it back up. She groaned, stretching her back, rolling her shoulders stiffly. Maker… was she beautiful. He hated himself for the pang of longing he felt at the sight of her. His busied himself rekindling the fire and feeding it a new log. When he turned back, Ahnet sat with her legs crossed, rubbing her face with a groan, still barely awake.

“I’ll… make us some tea,” Julian excused himself, a bit dizzy upon sudden standing. His hands shook with weakness, from the pit of nauseating dread blooming low in his stomach or from his exhaustion, he couldn’t know. And he suddenly, very desperately needed to sit down.

But he’d promised her tea! How could he fail her any more than he had already? With trembling hands, he filled the kettle and set it to boil. Julian leaned heavily against the stovetop, watching the uneven flames lick at the kettle. He had bought himself a proper one, he recalled with some nostalgia, when he’d learned of her fondness for the drink. Only the best for her. It stood out sorely in contrast to the wear of the room. In truth and with rare exception, Julian rather hated tea. Coffee was stronger, and honest in its bitterness. He’d quite come to care for the taste, but Ahnet had a gentler palette and less sleep under her belt. And now of all moments and occasions, he wanted desperately to give her whatever it was she needed to feel right.

Ahnet, feeling more than a bit off-kilter, sat herself beside the window at his little table. Julian busied himself, avoiding her, no doubt.  She should help him, she thought, but knew he needed the dignity her coddling would diminish in the moment.

Julian could feel her gaze on his back as he poured the brew into mugs. He bit back a hiss as the hot water splashed up against his hands. He retrieved honey from the cabinet overhead, and stirred a spoonful into Ahnet’s. And the cinnamon… damn him he had none. Unreasonably, he felt his face burn in shame. But no matter… he put on a smile, and presented the steaming mugs at the table. He took a sip, and his lip curled back at the taste. Over-steeped. Damn him again. Could he do nothing right? But Ahnet said nothing about the taste, simply took her small sips, warming her face and hands with the drink, some color returning to her cheeks. “Thank you, it’s good.”

Perhaps that was just how tea was then? No, Ahnet was being careful around him overly delicate with his feelings, she had to be. “There’s no shame in dumping this out the window. Look I’ll even pretend not to see,” he turned away dramatically. “I, uh… I haven't quite gotten the hang of it,” he confessed, feeling in his chest the soft echo of _and now perhaps I’ll never have a reason to._

He turned back to face her, and his heartrate shot at the smile on her lips, at the sound of that soft, early morning laugh. It made him feel a lightness after all the weight of things. But her laugh faltered, as good things always do.

He looked… grey. She imagined she was much the same. The circle under his eye was blackened and deep. Ahnet could help but fixate on the trembling of his hands, usually so capable, so familiar. And her eyes couldn't help but sear into the smooth, untarnished expanse of his wrist, just beyond those hands. She wanted to snatch her eyes away, to stare into her tea or to study the water damage on the table’s top. But no. She was caught. Bewitched. There was a rushing of blood in her ears that drown out whatever words he might have spoken. She was holding her breath as if somehow that might stop the tears from building to bursting behind her eyes.

“Ahnet?” Julian went to touch her hand, then reconsidered, restraining himself. She blinked, heavily, eyes downcast. What was she-- _oh,_ the realization struck him hard in the chest. Her face unchanged, a few tears slipped out, falling across her cheeks. His heart broke for her. “Ahnet.…” She shook her head, pressing a hand to her mouth for a moment. _I need a minute,_  she wanted to tell him. _I’m not angry with you I just can’t speak._ She stood roughly, chair scraping against the floor. She turned her back to him, an arm wrapped around her waist. It seemed silly, to worry about Julian seeing her cry, after everything. But she clung to that old notion of pride on instinct.

“I understand,” He began. “That you stayed this long…  I thank you, Ahnet. It is a kindness undeserved. I won’t make this more difficult for you… you don’t have to say a word. I’ll always cherish the time we had...” He wanted to pull her into his arms, to sooth the worry from her brow and kiss away the thoughts troubling her. But that wasn’t his place any longer. Julian knew it couldn’t be anymore. Her shoulders shook in silence, then a muffled sob tore from deep within her chest and she curled further into herself.

Julian had never seen her cry before, and it was a terror to behold that _crushed_ something deep and irreparable in his heart. “Oh, my dear...Ahnet…” he stood and approached her hesitantly, as one might a wounded animal. “I never wanted to hurt you.” his fingers twitched, wanting desperately to find their place on her shoulder, around her wholly.

“I never want _you_ to hurt _you!”_ She spun back to face him. She closed the gap between them with so furious a purpose Julian took a few steps back in surprise. She clutched at his shirt front. Ahnet looked up at him with naked, wet eyes, the moment of anger replaced by confusion, her grip going limp, chased maybe by the briefest flash of amusement. “I think I might still be drunk,” she confided. Ahnet sniffed after a brief pause, and she pulled herself into his chest, her grip vice-like, her teary laugh was muffled into his chest.

Arms unfrozen, Julian crushed her to his chest in return, a small laugh rumbled through him in like with her's-- she'd always had that effect on him. He kissed her hair. “I know you can never forgive me... But I am sorry, Ahnet. Truly.” He rubbed his thumb in small circles against her back, his other hand stroking her hair. If this was the last he’d hold her… he wanted it to be with love and none of the bittersweetness of regret. “I do love you, Ahnet. You must know this. So much it hurts.”

“There isn’t anything to forgive,” she pressed her hand flat against his chest. Julien wondered mutely if she felt his heart stop at her words, or his breath hitch. “I don’t want you to hurt,” she gripped tighter, her voice trembling. “I love you. I know I don’t say it nearly enough-- but I do love you, Julian.” She kept her face buried in his chest, but moved her hands to lace them behind his neck, to feel the hair at his nape. “ I don't want you to feel like… like that ever again.”

Julian toyed with the ends of her hair. “No my dear… never again. That will never happen again.” He believed himself this time, felt the promise he made as an unbreakable bond.

But Ahnet shook her head, pulling back a bit. “Julian, no--I’m being overly idealistic. I know you can’t just… will away those feelings but, please, talk to me next time. Whenever you need to. It’s not fair of me to ask you to never feel like that again. I want you to know that I’ll be there for you when you do.”

There was a lump in his throat, and he nodded around it, his gaze soft but resolute. “Yes, my dear. Thank you.”

Her hand traversed the line of his jaw, taking his chin in between deft fingers. “Kiss me, you fool.”

“Dare I?” His voice was low, a bit gravelly, and his thumb ghosted across her bottom lip with the barest of touch. His question was a genuine one, but slipped in between the guilt and the shame was a warmth rekindled. He brought himself down before her, and met, with welcome, her lips.


End file.
